


Le Génie du Mal

by sellswordking



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sellswordking/pseuds/sellswordking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes thinks on his sins as he shares a bed with the man he feels he has most wronged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Génie du Mal

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as having Holmescest or just Mycroft's fucked up ideals of brotherly love, whichever you prefer.

Mycroft dragged his fingers gently over the mess of scar tissue at John Watson’s shoulder. He had caused this. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time, but it had been _so long_ since he saw the results of his actions for himself; ruined flesh and a permanent reminder of what he had done to this poor man.  
  
If only he knew he had proof of Mycroft’s love for Sherlock sprawling over his flesh.  
  
It rather made the whole thing deeply perverse, if one chose to look at it. For Mycroft to accept John into his bed, take his sadness and his anger at losing the man who gave him purpose, all while knowing that it was because of him that they had been introduced in the first place, and that Sherlock was in fact alive and well in northern Germany at the moment.  
  
Leading John Watson to ruin was, perhaps, the worst of his sins. Sherlock was safe, though bored and probably destroying some lovely flat without anyone to temper him. But poor, lovely John Watson. Mycroft had moved him to the front lines, his surgical tools were taken and rather than giving life, he was allowed a weapon to take lives. But he would only suffer this for a month before Mycroft would find someone he trusted to be able to make a shot to incapacitate without crippling or killing the good doctor.  
  
The raised, angry skin beneath the tips of his fingers drew Mycroft down to kiss it, each an apology for what he had done.  
  
And he had done it all for his brother. For Sherlock. Let Sherlock wrap himself around John the way the boy would never do to Mycroft, until neither of them could stand the separation. The difference being, of course, that Sherlock was used to self-destruction, his life had been nothing but an ongoing path of it since his birth, or so it sometimes seemed.  
  
John had nearly been broken by realizing the first time that he no longer had a home in the niches of society. A truth that might have stayed dormant forever if not for Mycroft Holmes.  
  
And now, they shared a bed, and grief, and a love for the same man.  
  
Yes. Deeply perverse.  
  
John woke up under his soft worshipping, and smiled in a way that might have made any weaker man burst into tears. He asked no questions, however, as this was not the first time he’d awoken under Mycroft’s attentions, taking the guilt in his eyes for a sorrow that neither of them would show anyone else. He was equally gentle, equally slow as he kissed and rubbed and brought them closer. It was the very _least_ Mycroft could do to let John press him down into the bed and settle between his legs.  
  
Every kiss was an apology from John, landing over the bruises on Mycroft’s chest and collar bones, and over the welts from the night before. Without being prompted, he rolled over and let the doctor continue, tongue soothing over the perfect oval bruises pressed into freckled shoulders by frantic thumbs where John had been holding him so tightly. When unsure fingers brushed over his entrance, despite the urge to flinch away in soreness, Mycroft pushed back encouragingly. It didn’t matter that he’d been nearly numb when John finished with him the night before, or that it would be a painful experience this morning to walk without showing his limp; he deserved the pain and John the retribution.  
  
“You’re still slick.” They hadn’t bothered with condoms since the first time, but the _wonder_ in John’s voice never failed to send a pulse of arousal through the elder Holmes. He shifted and pressed into every slow, unnecessary thrust of John’s blunter fingers, willing his focus to the pleasure he got from it. Yes, he sacrificed, but he also knew if he seemed to get no enjoyment out of the act, John would cease. Though it seemed early enough that the man was easily convinced, and left Mycroft empty for only a second before replacing the pressure with something larger, and _so much better_.  
  
It was more than Mycroft deserved when John’s hand covered his, lacing their fingers together over the sheets as he thrust in _deep_ and _far too slowly_ , until the fire felt as if it would burn the truth from him. John’s quiet panting and the creek of the bedsprings beneath them seemed to harmonize, and Mycroft deliberately clenched and rocked back into him, feeling forgiven by the passion in every kiss against the back of his shoulder and neck. This was absolution; to be used by the man he had helped destroy, to give him something to hold and pleasure so the world felt _right_ again. Softly, in French, Mycroft whispered, “ _je suis à  vous_” and only a second later heard a nearly choked-off sob in John’s throat as he released, the warmth reaching all the way through him like a baptism, forcing him face down to hide the tears standing in his eyes.  
  
All he had done to John Watson, and all he would continue to hide from him; it paled in comparison to the fact that he would do it again and again in the name of his younger brother without batting an eyelash.  
  
That was the truest sin of Mycroft Holmes. 


End file.
